


Your Contours

by zeldadestry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-15
Updated: 2005-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they only want the surface</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Contours

Why shouldn't you have her?  
Even Mudbloods have their uses. You know about your father's whores. And why not? Why shouldn't he have them if he wants them? You could never respect a Mudblood, but why not fuck them, if you find one you want? Why should you ever be denied anything you want?  
You like her red hair. You wish it were even darker. When you dream of her, her hair is red as blood. Her eyes are verdant as the luminous scales of a snake hidden in the grass. And your hair, as you press your face to her belly, your hair is a raven's wing against the moon of her skin.  
In a dream you tell her you love her. This does not frighten you. You want to destroy her. To crush the one you want to you, to hold them so tight that they surrender everything to you, even their breath, in your heart, this is the meaning of love.  
Her breasts are small and you imagine the tips of her nipples will be the color of raspberries. You want to taste her, to have the juice of her mouth and her cunt on your tongue, smeared across your lips. You know it won't really be sweet, but in your dreams she's the tart sugar of berries that are almost, almost, but not quite, ripe.  
You will stain her skin when you touch her. You are a Black and you leave your dark mark everywhere you have been.  
Does she watch you? Of course she watches you. Everyone watches you, even Dumbledore. He may find your inner landscape repulsive, but he would recant all his integrity if he thought he had a chance to press your body against him. He knows it's a disguise and he wants you still. This is where the power of your beauty lies. Narcissa's features are as fine as yours, but the ice in her gaze betrays her. You look so good, so pure and kind. You look innocent, like every serpent before you, going back to Eden. Every mirror you have faced proclaims you beautiful and declares its love.  
You are a razor. You need only the slightest pressure to draw blood. But your body's curves are so lush that everyone who looks at you reassures themselves that such beauty would not possibly harm them, no, not them.  
They lie to themselves, because they long to embrace you, to open their arms to you. They can't help reaching for you even though they know, deep down, that they offer their very veins to your fangs.  
In your dreams you touch her face, push her hair away from her neck and kiss the thin flesh under which her pulse pounds. This is the first taste, this first small press of your teeth against her skin, the first nip that will set in motion the pleasures of eating her alive. Terrified, she presses away from you, but not before you have heard a gasp that reveals her own craving.  
You have a wonderful leather cord that has been charmed so that once knotted, nothing but your own touch can release the bond. It was black, but you have transfigured it the ruby color of her hair. Perhaps this is the way of it, the best way to enjoy her, binding her wrists, ensuring that you may do anything you want to her captive body. This could give you her double sorrow to savor. She will be humiliated by her helplessness, and she will be frustrated by her inability to caress you, to make you writhe and buck as she does.  
There are nights when you imagine her trapped in a glass box from which she can never escape. You will have her as your own living piece of art. She will cry, undoubtedly, she will wail, and beg and plead with you to be released, and you will love her even more when her face contorts with the desperation of her pain.  
Yes, yes, oh, yes. You have so many pretty ideas of how you will play with her. There is one, however, that shines more than all the others.  
You would like to burn her from the inside out. You've been trespassing in the restricted section and you've discovered the spell. It's your own touch against her that will ignite the flames, and these flames can not be stopped, will not be stopped, until there is nothing left to burn. All that will remain of her is the ash covering your bed. She will burst like a phoenix, screaming, as all martyrs do, yet never rise again. And you, you will very carefully collect the ash and place it in a beautiful silver urn that has been in your family for centuries. You will engrave it with a picture of the flower that bears her name. It will be displayed in a place of honor, alongside all your most special trophies, all your most wonderful memories of your want and their pain.

  


You know you will fall in love one day. And when you fall in love, your love will be so strong, so true, that you and your lover will be forever safe, forever happy and free. Ever since you were a little girl, your mother has always said, in her most tender voice, 'you have a fierce heart, Lily, my love.' Yes. You have a fierce heart, a lion's heart, and when you fall in love, it will be forever, and you will do anything, everything for him. You will cherish him and love him as no one has ever been loved before.  
Love is the strongest, most powerful force in the world. You know this. It has to be. Love is all that matters.  
And yet, you've been having the most wonderful dreams. In the morning, when you wake from them, you tell yourself they must have been about Sirius Black. Wasn't it his dark hair that tickled your skin as his mouth moved across your breasts? Wasn't it his voice, low and hoarse, that called you beautiful?  
After all, every girl at Hogwart's has thought about Sirius Black that way. Every girl, once or twice or a hundred times, alone in the dark, has thought of him and drifted slow, seeking fingers down her belly to touch herself. Every girl, at least once or twice or a thousand times, has imagined him on top of her, behind her, all around her, pushing inside her.  
Yes, this is how your dreams start. Your fingertips trailing across Sirius's cheekbones, your fingertips being kissed by his lips. But the visions change, they change so quickly. Each night you spend less and less time in Sirius's arms and you slip into hers almost as soon as you close your eyes.  
You think about her, of course you do. How can you not? She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. It hurts you to look at her, it tugs at your chest. You notice the stupidest things, like her slim wrists and the sharp arch of bone that protrudes from them, and you could cry over them. She's like the most wonderful music in the world. There's no other way to describe it. She's a beautiful song, and you just want to swim in her, be surrounded by her. And that's so wrong, it's so, so wrong. You don't even like her. She scares you. How can you want her when you've seen something in her eyes that frightens you? Yes. It's in her eyes. She lives for pain, she lives on it. You tripped once, in front of her, coming down the stairs to the Great Hall. How could you have forgotten this? You fell forward, and she was there, about to start up the stairs. You threw your arms out to break the fall, and managed not to get too hurt, just a little bruised, a little shaken. But the Slytherins lurking around laughed, and your bag went flying. She didn't laugh, and because everyone else did, she seemed kind by comparison. She even picked up one of your quills and handed it to you. Still, though, wasn't what had flashed in her eyes, right as you lost your balance, worse than any laugh? There was a spark in her eyes, an electric excitement. She was hoping to enjoy the thrill of seeing you break your neck. Yes, you felt that. And, yet, you convince yourself that it's not true. Some part of you is willing to overlook it.  
One night, when you're in the library, you feel someone watching you. Stupid Potter always lurks around, but he doesn't make your skin prickle. So, you turn, very slowly, giving the person time to hide, if that's what they want, and there she is. She meets the challenge of your gaze. She raises the stakes, running her eyes down your body, and then caressing her shoulder with her cheek, nuzzling her own skin, so languidly that you can feel her phantom touch all over you. You're blushing, and when she sees your flush, she flashes a victorious smile and disappears back into the stacks of books. Your hands are trembling.  
Later, in your room, alone in your bed, you abandon the lie about this having anything to do with Sirius, anything to do with anyone but Bellatrix, dangerous as it feels. You're watching that long hair, falling over you, obscuring your vision, blinding you like starless night. You're feeling those long, long legs, wrapped around you, so tight, like she has to have you, can't stand to think of being apart from you. Your hands are running up the sides of her body, the hourglass curves of hers, that you envy and admire. And that face, that beautiful face, you're imagining it above you, her wet, pink lips parted, as she pants. And as you imagine touching her, as you touch yourself, you pretend that all her insides match her outsides. You pretend that she is as kind as she is beautiful, as brave, as honest. And when you come, it is so good, you can't believe how good it is, how much you, oh, yes, like this, everything, every bit of you, clenching, surrendering, in waves, and when it's over you just lie there, one of your hands still squeezing at your breast, everything inside you, every bit of you, every cell, shaking, shimmying. But then, then, when you start to come down, when you start to be aware again, when you come back to yourself, there's a sick feeling stuck in the pit of your belly, as though all that bliss has left a poisonous residue.  
The next time she looks at you, you will turn away. No, no. The next time she watches you, you won't even know it, because you will never look in her direction again, never.  
There is someone out there, there has to be. There is someone for you, someone you will want as much as you love, love as much as you want. You will find him, he will find you.  
When you love, it will be forever.


End file.
